


Lovebug

by bamboozledone



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bamboozledone/pseuds/bamboozledone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek starts driving a bright yellow Volkswagen Bug. Stiles is confused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovebug

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the following conversation I shamelessly eavesdropped in on while at the DMV a week ago:
> 
> Woman 1: No, we are not buying a Bug, Vivian.  
> Woman 2: Why not? It's so cute! And there's so much leg room!  
> Woman 1: We are lesbians, Viv, not gay men. Jeeps and Range Rovers, yes. VW Bugs and Mini Coopers, no.
> 
> And thus, this story was born.
> 
> Story assumes that Boyd and Erica never get caught by the Alpha pack because I love them and refuse to acknowledge that they might not be part of next season.
> 
> Mistakes are my own.

Scott and Stiles are sitting outside the school when Stiles sees it for the first time, across the street from the high school, parallel parking between a red Range Rover and a black BMW. It’s bright yellow and has some obnoxious bumper stickers plastered on the rear mirror, and Stiles doesn’t bother to stifle his laugh when the Bug clips the shiny beamer behind it.

 

Scott stops in the middle of what Stiles assumes is his tenth or so text to Allison this morning, and frowns. “Dude, isn’t that Derek?”

 

“ _What_?” Stiles says.

 

\---

 

In a particularly surprising turn of events, Stiles and Scott are not hallucinating.

 

Scott is basically living at the Stilinski house these days, eating Stiles’ family out of house and home while Mrs. McCall pulls double and triple shifts at the hospital. It’s not too bad: The last three nights have consisted of movie marathons and six-hour video game binges that keep Scott from thinking too hard about the fact that his mom totally knows why the shower drain keeps backing up with what looks like dog hair.

 

“I freaking hate Netflix,” Scott grumbles, punching at the white Wii remote with disgust. He shakes his head in disbelief as he runs through the “Comedies With A Strong Female Lead” category.  “Who wants to watch something that got cancelled after one season?”

 

“One of these days I will break my father and get HBO,” Stiles promises. “Any day now, I can feel it. And then we can bask in _Dexter_ and _Game of Thrones_ glory on a weekly basis.”

 

They’re just about to start _Firefly_ for the hundredth time (“Never forget,” Stiles always says) when there is a series of honks from the driveway. Stiles considers ignoring them, until Scott gives him a pointed look and hits him with a down pillow.

 

“I thought your dad was out until midnight,” Scott calls from the couch as Stiles opens the door to a wrecked Derek Hale. Stiles briefly considers slamming the door in his face and getting back to an uninterrupted night of Nathan Fillion, but common decency (damn it) gets the best him again, and he forces the door open another couple of inches.

 

Derek winces, and Stiles groans when he sees the full extent of Derek’s injuries. “Oh god, you didn’t get shot again, did you?”

 

Derek stutter-steps toward him, and Stiles can see a small line of blood starting to trickle out of the side of Derek’s mouth. Upon further inspection, it’s not the only blood that’s pouring out of Derek at the moment: There are at least three gashes on his lower right leg and one massive cut across his arm that Stiles thinks might reach all the way down to the bone.

 

“Dude!” Stiles shouts as Derek sways again. He catches him against his shoulder, and gasps as the full weight of the Alpha presses against him. God, he needs to spend more time not cutting practice, because he’s ready to bend like a piece of paper. “Stop bleeding on my front porch!”

 

“Urgh,” Scott croaks from across the room as Derek pushes his way into the Stilinski house. “What’s that _smell_?”

 

“Alphas,” Derek spits out. He’s still bleeding, but, even with the steady stream of red that’s starting to coagulate on the floor, Stiles can’t stop staring at the Bug behind him. It’s like the yellow paint job is mocking Stiles’ every well-researched perception of Derek Hale.

 

“Alphas?” Scott says, getting up from the couch and standing next to Stiles.

 

Derek nods. “A whole pack. All Alphas. All angry.”

 

Scott and Stiles exchange a look that Stiles has come to associate with future hospital stays and very long groundings.

 

“So you’re here to ask for help then.” Stiles segues. “Because Derek Hale and his resurrected family unit cannot hold off a group of egotistical Alphas.” 

 

Derek doesn’t actually growl, but it’s pretty obvious that he wants to. “They’ll come after you too, you know.”

 

Scott shakes his head. “Man, Stiles and I haven’t done anything to tick them off. They’re after you and your pack, not us.”

 

Derek sneers. “You think they need a reason to take out rivals, Scott?”

 

As per usual, Scott looks a little lost. “I’m not a rival.”

 

“Everyone is a rival!” Derek shouts. “Which means that everyone is fair game.”

 

“They don’t even know I exist!” Scott replies. “As far as they know, it’s just you and your Betas!”

 

“They’ll find you, Scott,” Derek insists, hand suddenly tight on Scott’s shoulder. Stiles can see the wounds on his leg starting to dry up, but the gash on his arm seems to be in for the long haul, and yeah, the blood is now starting to seep into the wood paneling that Stiles’ father spent way too much money on last month. “They’ll find you, and they’ll kill you just because they can.”

 

“God Derek, just…go,” Scott says, pushing Derek’s hand off. “I think it would be better if you just left.”

 

Derek looks like he’s going to argue, but lowers his head. “It’s your funeral,” he mutters, his hand dragging a bloody mark across Stiles’ front door as he leaves. “Don’t call me when they come to your house with a bunch of torches and gasoline.”

 

Scott sighs, and heads back over to the couch, while Stiles waits for Derek to pull out of the driveway. The headlights on the VW Bug flicker, and Stiles swears that he hears Ace of Base playing on the speakers as the car hums along the pavement, out of the cul-de-sac and onto the main road.  

 

“So we’re going to help him, right?” Stiles hums as he starts sipping on a Coors that tastes like piss.

 

“Fuck,” says Scott, and presses play.

 

\---

 

Stiles and Scott later regret Scott’s decision to play hard-to-get when Melissa McCall ends up in a hospital bed with Stiles’ dad (his _dad_!) hooked up to a heart monitor next to her. They keep making googly eyes at one another, which, wow, Stiles is going to go ahead and pretend that the painkillers are to blame for that one. It’s pretty much a miracle that they’re both not in the morgue, what with the new Alpha pack following them around like rock star groupies. Stiles cannot turn around without seeing one of them lurking in the shadows, just waiting to pounce.

 

“There is literally nothing I wouldn’t give to shoot you right now,” Stiles says when Derek walks into the empty recovery room next to his father’s room and locks the door behind him. “And I am a man of peace and total pacifism.”

 

Derek snorts, his eyes flickering to Scott, who looks like a shamed kitten. “It’s different when it’s your family,” he says. “When you’re the one with something to lose, it’s different, isn’t it, Scott?”

 

It’s a low blow, Stiles can feel it burn in his gut, but Scott has always been more resilient than Stiles is. He nods, and reaches out his hand to Derek’s.

 

“I’m not saying I’ll join your pack forever,” Scott adds as they shake. “I’m just saying that you can call. If you want to call. Because I don’t really want my mom to die. Or Stiles’ dad. To die, I mean.”

 

Derek grunts, with what Stiles supposes is Derek’s version of acquiescence. 

 

“And this doesn’t really change much,” Stiles can’t help himself from adding. “You’re still hanging out with your psycho uncle and you definitely tried to kill Jackson. And while I may have had more than a few healthy fantasies about doing exactly the same thing, I didn’t actually _do it_ because I am a person with feelings and emotions and a fear of a murder charge on my permanent record.”

 

“Stiles,” Derek hisses, voice low as he moves toward the door. “Grow the hell up.”

 

“We’re still not on speaking terms!” Stiles shouts across the hospital hallway, watching Derek round the corner with a little skid against the ground. “And you totally still owe me and my dad a new carpet!”

 

Stiles slumps against the frame of the door, his hands crossing over his chest. At the end of the day, it’s not like Derek Hale is a changeable being. His goals are simple, and his methods, anti-humanitarian as they are, are proving to stand the test of time.

 

Stiles presses his face against the glass of the hospital window, watching as Derek opens the driver’s side door to the Bug in the parking lot. The yellow looks almost gold in the waning sunlight of the evening.

 

“Oh god, we’re going to have to work with _Erica_ ,” Scott says from across the room. Stiles seriously wonders when Scott will wake up and smell the Big Picture.

 

God, Stiles hates Alphas.

 

\---

 

“I don’t get it,” Scott says absently. “I mean, when my mom’s car got totaled they gave her a PT Cruiser.”

 

Stiles and Derek are sitting outside Scott’s house, watching Derek pace around the lawn for some very important reason that Derek has yet to share with the rest of the class. From his vantage point, Stiles can see that a couple scratch marks are still festering on Derek’s arm, and Stiles feels bad for Derek. Almost.

 

“But really. I mean, don’t you normally get like, a Chevy Malibu? Ford Fiesta? Something less…” Scott waves his hand, willing the words to appear. “Flashy?”

 

Derek gives him this look like he could maul Scott and be completely regret-free for the rest of his lifetime. “Dealership said it was this or a Mini Cooper while the Camaro is in the shop. I chose the Bug because it has more leg room.”

 

“Dude,” Scott says, inspecting the side view mirror with unparalleled interest. “Always, _always_ go for the Mini Cooper.”

 

“Yeah. British things are very in right now,” Stiles adds as he taps the back panel of the car’s frame. Jeez, he didn’t know the thing was so fucking bright up close. It’s actually bordering on obscene.  

 

Derek does not threaten to kill Stiles even once that afternoon, which Stiles is going to go ahead and assume means he’s making some sort of progress.

 

 

 

\---

 

It turns out that the Alphas are just getting warmed up with the attack on the Sheriff and Mrs. McCall. Jackson’s parents end up in the ICU right next to Chris Argent and Allison a week later, and Stiles starts waking up in the middle of the night, screaming through the end of nightmares that involve amputated human appendages and bucketfuls of guts on the carpet.

 

Stiles is just coming to from a well-deserved catnap in World History when one of them, a bottle blonde with crazy eyes and a serious need of orthodontic intervention, grabs him by the scruff of the neck and proceeds to haul him out to the deserted parking lot. She slams him up against the side of a ragged old pickup, and smirks when Stiles grimaces at the force.

 

“Now, we can do this the easy way, or the painful way.” Her eyes glisten a maroon color that is, oddly, not the weirdest thing about her. “Tell me where Hale is keeping his pack, and we can keep this whole meeting civil. You don’t have to die today, kid.”

 

Stiles doesn’t even try to get away. “Aren’t you supposed to make a more public threat? Assert your dominance over Beacon Hills or something? That’s what the Internet says you’ll do, anyway, and at least one in every ten things I read on there about you guys seems to be true.”

 

Bottle Blonde shoves him up against the car again, and Stiles feel a couple bones in his wrist snap on impact.

 

“Fuck,” Stiles whines through the pain. “For the record, you’re not the first werewolf who has tried to bash my brains out against a Chevy. At this point, the nerve endings in the back of my head no longer contain any pain receptors. It’s basically like you’re shoving me into a pillow.”  

 

The Alpha bares her teeth and wow, Stiles could seriously refer some dental professionals. It would be a public service.

 

“Where is Hale hiding his pack?” she asks again, her nails digging into his skin.

 

“No clue,” Stiles answers truthfully. “It’s not like I follow him on Twitter.”

 

“You know I could turn you, right?” she whispers as she steps closer, her rotting breath hot against the skin of his ear. “I could turn you right now and you’d have to tell me everything because I’d be your Alpha. And then I could rip you limb from limb afterward and you wouldn’t even have the survival instinct to fight back.”

 

“You’d have to fight Derek first for that pleasure. He clearly had maiming rights on this body, and he’d be pretty disappointed if he wasn’t allowed to take advantage.”

 

Bottle Blonde gives him another glare, and her fangs start descending, little by little, when Stiles hears it. The Bug screeches around a corner, which makes the car even more ridiculous, something Stiles did not actually think was a possibility. The Alpha snarls, and, yep, she’s definitely pieced the skin on Stiles’ arm this time with her claws, and he’s seriously going to shoot something cute and fuzzy if he turns into a werewolf from something as weaksauce as a flesh wound.

 

“Get _in_ , Stiles,” Derek shouts when the car pulls up next to them. The blonde Alpha lets go for a second, and Derek revs the engine once, twice, and Stiles jumps in without looking back.

 

“Oh yeah,” Stiles grumbles as Derek shoves his safety belt on. Stiles touches his thumb to the rapidly rising bump on the back of his head, and tries to ignore the sick feeling that keeps growing in the pit of his stomach. “Really, this is the best getaway vehicle in the world. Not conspicuous _at all_.”

 

On the other hand, it appears that the Bug gets _great_ mileage on surface streets.

 

\---

 

Isaac is sitting on the front steps of the administration building during the first of the fall rains, fiddling with his backpack. Regardless of the whole intensely-bloodthirsty werewolf thing, Stiles will always think Isaac looks like a kicked puppy, especially when he flaunts his tendency to sit alone in dark corners by himself.

 

“Need a ride?” Stiles says, jingling his keys in front of Isaac’s face. Given the current Alpha Situation (this is what Stiles likes to think of it in his head, because Alpha Shit Storm 2012 just wasn’t family-friendly enough), Stiles doesn’t particularly like leaving people with wolf-y ties alone in public spaces for too long. “I have a little time to drive you home if you don’t want to wait out in the rain like a vagrant.”

 

It occurs to Stiles as he says this that Isaac still _is_ sort of a vagrant (which, hey, shouldn’t Mr. Derek Alpha really be doing something about that?) and he is epically grateful that, in addition to being a sort-of vagrant, Isaac is also a really, _really_ nice guy.

 

“Nah,” Isaac replies. “Derek’s picking up the pack these days. Safety in numbers, you know?”

 

Stiles stiffens. “In the Bug?”

 

Isaac gives him a little smile. “The Camaro’s still in the shop.”

 

Against his admittedly lacking better judgment, Stiles sits next to Isaac on the sopping wet pavement. He tries not to flinch at the feeling of the rainwater soaking through the fabric of his pants. “It doesn’t seem a little strange to you? I mean, Derek’s all…” Stiles waves his arms and bares his decidedly lacking canines. “And the Bug is all…yellow.”

 

Isaac laughs. It’s a warm sound, and Stiles remembers exactly why he had this teenytinybarelythereatallseriously crush on him for like, one second last month. “What, not a fan of the color?”

 

“Dude, your Alpha is driving around in a car named after an insect and looks like a sunflower..”

  
“It’s unique,” Isaac says, because Isaac is a fucking kiss ass and doesn’t have a bad word to say about anyone. It makes Stiles want to punch puppies (a very specific one, whose first name starts with a _D_ and last name ends in _E_ ). “And he’s the Alpha, so he can do whatever he wants. It’s not exactly my place to say anything about it, is it?”

 

Stiles shrugs. Far be it from him to know the proper protocol in these situations, no matter how many times he’s Googled “pack dynamics” and “werewolves”.

 

“Besides,” Isaac adds, playing with the keychain that hangs from his ratty shoulder bag. “It’s only temporary, right?” And then he smiles this stupidly charming smile that Stiles would like to think he’s completely immune to at this point, but which he is not.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbles as he stands up. He can see the Bug just pulling into the parking lot, and he really doesn’t want to be here when Derek cruises over like some menacing soccer mom.

 

“Take care,” Isaac calls as Stiles stumbles back to his Jeep.

 

Stiles really, really hates Isaac.

 

Sort of.

 

(But not really.)

 

\---

 

“I mean, it’s totally weird, right?”

 

Stiles can’t believe he’s still on this, but fuck, it totally _is_ weird. He’s seen Derek driving the Bug around town for the past two weeks, and it freaks him out each and every time he watches the yellow blur whiz by him.  

 

Scott shrugs. “I don’t see what the big deal is. You had a pink backpack until ninth grade. Nobody gave you shit for that, so why should you give Derek shit for the Bug?”

 

Actually, Stiles remembers being shoved into a locker because of said backpack once or twice and being called a queer by a couple jocks who had it out for him since Stiles was seven years old and told his entire second grade class that his hero was Sally Ride. Of course, Scott doesn’t need to know this, so Stiles just shrugs, and picks up his (much more manly) black satchel.  

 

“I’m not giving him shit, I’m just saying that it’s…different. You don’t expect a big, bad Alpha to be driving something favored by teenage girls with trust funds, do you?”

 

Scott shrugs again, because he is Scott and he doesn’t go deeper than a pinprick these days. Stiles laments the world he lives in.

 

\---

 

The Alphas go after Mrs. McCall again. She runs one of them over with her car, and, not surprisingly, they leave hear alone after that.

 

\---

 

Stiles is walking around downtown, waiting for his father to meet him for lunch at the little sandwich shop on Main Street, when he hears Ace of Base blasting through the air.

 

He looks up from the useless text he’s composing, and sees the Bug, stopped at stoplight. Derek is in the car, the top down, his hand tapping against the door to _Beautiful Life_. It’s a little windy outside, and Stiles can just see a few faint lines of Derek’s hair flip across his forehead. Derek is smiling, an honest-to-god _smile_ , something Stiles hasn’t been able to picture in his head, let alone view in real life.

 

It’s at that point that Stiles get what might just be the most inappropriate spike of arousal he’s had in his entire quasi-adult life, and he just _wants_.

 

The light turns green before Stiles’ body can make him any more indecent in public. “I cannot handle my existence,” he moans, willing his tiniest hint of an erection away when he sees his dad waving from across the way.

 

\---

 

Derek and his pack are training near the interstate that nobody uses and will probably be condemned in the next few years. Stiles and Scott tag along because their social lives, which were on life support before, are now completely non-existent without Allison in the picture. So they sit sadly by the side with Lydia and her iPad, watching as Derek runs his pack through various drills that remind Stiles of all the military movies he falls asleep during.

 

In the distance, there’s a loud _boom_ , and then a slow humming that progressively gets louder.

 

“What the hell is that?” Jackson demands, standing up from his place on the ground.

 

What that is turns out to be the Alphas. All of them. Driving every muscle car imaginable down the road.

 

“You see!” Stiles shouts, pointing at the pack of red Mustangs that roar by. He can see Bottle Blonde in the driver’s seat of the lead car, her hair whipping across her face as she floors the car and waves in their general direction. “Those are Alpha-suitable cars, Derek! That,” he continues, gesturing toward the Bug. “That is not an appropriate Alpha accessory!”

 

Derek growls and snaps his teeth at Stiles. Stiles is not scared because Derek and his bitchy mood swings no longer scare him (much).

 

A couple more of the Alphas whiz past on jet-black Harleys, and Stiles doesn’t even bother berating Derek’s choice of vehicle a second time.

 

\---

 

Stiles is home with his father on a Thursday night, picking through the remnants of what should have been a delicious Cobb salad, when his dad looks up from his mostly empty dinner plate and gives Stiles a glower that guarantees that Stiles will not be enjoying the rest of his heart-healthy meal in peace.

 

“I wrote the Hale boy up for a ticket today,” the Sheriff starts slowly. “Going 60 in a 25 mile per hour zone.” He stabs at a piece of meat that Stiles knows is woefully undercooked. “Do none of your friends have any sort of respect for the law?”

 

“Compared to arrests for murder, I’m going to say a speeding ticket is actually progress,” Stiles inputs. “And god, he’s so beyond not my friend. He’s some creepy stalker who will not leave well enough alone.”

 

His dad gives him a distinctly unimpressed look. “That’s some car here’s got.”

 

Stiles looks up from his salad. He really should have gone with the ranch instead of the blue cheese dressing. “Yeah, the Camaro is a real babe magnet. You should see the looks he gets when he drives by the Rotary Club meetings. Let’s just say that all the cougars get all growly.”

 

His dad chuckles. “He wasn’t driving the Camaro.”

 

“Oh.” Stiles blinks. “I assumed… well, I thought he had it back by now.”

 

The Sheriff shifts away from his plate. Stiles doesn’t like where this is going. “I didn’t realize Derek Hale was…that way.”  

 

Stiles blanks. “I didn’t know he was…huh?”

 

His father sharpens his knife on the edge of his plate. “It’s the sort of car that a specific sort of man buys, Stiles.”  

 

Stiles automatically narrows his eyes. “Dad, a guy’s not automatically gay just because he drives a VW Bug.”

 

His dad gives him a dubious glance. “A man’s car says a lot about the man, son,” he continues. “And if Derek Hale wants to use it as his personal preference calling card, that’s fine, but he shouldn’t be surprised when folks make a comment here or there.”

 

Stiles groans, his head sinking to the wooden table. “Your heteronomative standards are ridiculous, Dad.”

 

The Sheriff straightens. “You know I don’t care, Stiles. I’m just saying that Derek shouldn’t be surprised when people make their assumptions.”

 

Stiles pushes away the remainder of his salad and starts for his room and the four plus hours of calculus studying he’s been ignoring since Monday. He’s not really hungry anymore. “I think this conversation just took a turn for Future Therapist Material.”

 

He’s halfway up the stairs when, out of some sense of seriously twisted curiosity, Stiles turns back to his father, who is now happily shoveling the remainder of his mashed potatoes into his mouth without interruption.

 

“What does my Jeep say about me?”

 

Stiles’ father gives him a look that clearly states that Stiles definitely does not want the answer to that question, and Stiles slinks off, contemplating whether or not a coat of grey paint would butch his current transportation up just a little bit.

 

\---

 

Stiles does not scream when the next Alpha seeks him out.

 

This particular Alpha shares some basic qualities with Derek, namely that he doesn’t appear to have the ability to smile nor the capacity to shave on a regular basis. Also, that he has a fucking perfectly ripped body that he likes to show off with shirts that don’t fit. It’s distracting at best, and a potential nervous breakdown at the other end of the spectrum, and Stiles really wishes he hadn’t cut lacrosse practice again today.

 

“Not going to hurt you,” the Alpha says as he forces his way into Stiles’ personal space. Stiles feels himself get pushed back against the Jeep until the Alpha is pressed against him from head to toe. Well, good to know that it was a trait all Alphas apparently had beaten into them at a young and impressionable age. Stiles will add that to the book he’s planning to write. “Not going to hurt you, so relax.”

 

“What the fuck are you doing then, man?” Stiles squeaks as the Alpha lowers his head to Stiles’ neck. “No matter what you wolves all seem to think, there is an unspoken rule about not molesting the unwilling in public.”

 

Sexyface (which, what, it’s a completely valid title) sniffs at Stiles’ collarbone once, twice. “Just trying to figure out while Hale keeps you around when you’re not one of us.”

 

The very tip of his claw traces the soft tendons on Stiles’ neck and Stiles hates himself for getting justalittlebit hard at the gesture. He and his dick are going to need to have a serious conversation in the near future about what is kosher to be getting stoked about. Alphas who clearly want to take a bite out of him are not going on that otherwise exhaustive list.

 

“You’d make a good addition to any pack,” Sexyface states when he finally pulls back. “Strong will. It’s a trait that’s always been undervalued by our kind.”

 

Stiles doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he doesn’t try.

 

“Nice car,” he says as he leaves. Stiles totally does not check his ass out when he walks away.

 

\---

 

Stiles is at Home Depot because, as much as he likes to think that all of his half-kidding prayers to Whatever Deity Might Be Holding Office Hours At That Moment will somehow keep him and his father from ending up in the Beacon Hills Cemetery, knows that he needs to be prepared for what is pretty much an inevitable attack on his home. This happens to add up to Stiles buying a shit ton of plywood and pretending that paneling reinforcement he plans for the front doorframe is going to defend his humble abode from intruders with fangs.

 

“I don’t know how to fasten it to the wall,” Scott says. “I don’t think there are any studs around your doorframe.”

 

Stiles bobs his head, not really listening. He’s good at many things, but being a handyman is not one of them. To be honest, he wasn’t aware Scott was into DIY home improvement either, but hey, Scott had to have one marketable skill for the future and if manual labor was it, then who was Stiles to judge?

 

“I don’t have a staple gun either,” Scott goes on. “But now that I’m thinking about it, that might not be a terrible thing for you to carry around. You know, as a weapon. Do you think that would be in the aisle with the nails or with the power tools?”

 

Stiles turns from the timber selection, peering toward the registers. “Why don’t we ask the guy over in the…”

 

“Dude!” Scott hisses, shoving Stiles and their ridiculously full cart into a wall of two-by-fours. “Dude, it’s Derek!”

 

Derek is pushing a cart filled with paint. Light, _pastel pink_ paint. Stiles counts at least seven buckets, and it looks like he’s talking to a lady in an orange smock who is holding a number of paint chips that run the gamut from fuchsia to magenta, clearly intent on buying more. It’s not the strangest thing he’s ever seen Derek do, but it ranks on the Top Ten list for sure.

 

“A riddle wrapped inside an enigma,” Stiles mutters, pushing the cart toward the home appliances section.

 

\---

 

On a day when he decided _not_ to skip lacrosse practice, Stiles comes home to a house that is literally on fire. He can smell the ash in the air a block and a half away, and when he gets there, three fire trucks are pulled into his driveway. A couple police cruisers are parked beside them, some plainclothes talking to Stiles’ neighbors, all of whom look more confused than concerned.

 

Of course, the house that’s on fire isn’t actually the Stilinski house. It’s the house next door to the Stilinski house, which has been vacant for almost a year, since the old lady who lived there died of a heart attack. But with the loopy red blood stains on the driveway of the late Mrs. Kepmann, it’s pretty obvious that the Alphas had a hand in the property damage.

 

Stiles judges the Alphas’ investigative skills a little bit.

 

His fingers hesitate against the screen of his phone when he pulls it out of his back pocket. He thinks about calling Scott to pick him up, or his dad, whose car he doesn’t see in the melee that’s currently surrounding his house. Instead, he surprises himself and presses speed dial 6, and holds the phone up to his ear. 

 

Derek is there within minutes, the top down on the car again. Stiles doesn’t feel guilty when his body flushes hot because, well, burned down house and all. He can’t be expected to keep his emotions or hormones in check at a time like this.   

“Need a ride to the station?” Derek asks quietly, and Stiles doesn’t have the willpower to say no.

 

\---

 

Stiles is not afraid of Erica.

 

Okay, so he is. A little bit. Just a little bit. Because a healthy fear of werewolves is nothing to be ashamed of, and Stiles likes to think that if he’s going to die at the hands of one, it’s going to be one of the Alphas, and not the always-hot-but-less-obviously-so Beta who wears a little too much lipstick and way too little clothes.

 

“Dude, what’s up with Derek?” he asks when he sees Erica at the supermarket, pulling a package of dried gnocchi from the pasta shelf. “I saw him at Home Depot buying a ton of paint. Like, enough paint for a couple episodes of _Extreme Makeover: Home Edition_.”

 

Erica gives him a blank look, and Stiles takes this as his cue to continue. “I mean, is he renovating the subway car or something? Because I think it’s going to take more than a fresh coat of Kelly Moore to make that place feel homey.”  

 

Erica shrugs, some blonde curls falling toward her face. She shoves a couple packages of lasagna strips into her cart too, and, after some debate, a package of rigatoni on top. “I’m not with him every hour of every day, Stiles. I don’t know why he needs paint.”

 

“Yeah but...” Stiles clears his throat, leans in. “He’s also got that car. That very, very, very yellow car. That plus the paint…” Stiles makes another gesture that he sincerely believes conveys “makes him look like a covert homosexual”.

 

Erica looks at her nails now, clearly bored. It reminds Stiles of Lydia, and he wonders vaguely if his entire life is going to be filled with hot, indifferent females who are more likely to stab him than have sex with him.

 

“Make your point, Stiles.”

 

“All I’m saying is that Derek is… _weird_.”

 

Erica now appears to be debating the merits of slapping him in public. Stiles really hopes that logic and the hypothetical threat of a lawsuit win out over her wolf rage.

 

“I think it’s cute,” she says after awhile. “The car. I like the color, and it smells nice inside.”

 

“It smells nice?”

 

“Yes.” Erica wrinkles her nose. “The other car smelled like roadkill baking in the sun for a month. This car sort of smells like daisies and lemonade. A big improvement over roadkill, wouldn’t you say?”

 

Stiles’ eyes widen. “You seriously like it, don’t you? Like, not in the kitschy, oh, it’s it novel to have a car that looks like Pac Man way, but like, _like_ like it.”

 

“Yes,” Erica says again. “I like the car.”

 

Stiles holds up his hands, defeated, and he hears Erica growl before he flees to the produce section.

 

\---

 

The last time the Alpha pack decides to accost Stiles is when he’s walking to Scott’s house for their now weekly movie marathons (on the plate tonight: _Die Hard_ I-III, since Stiles has decided that _Live Free or Die Hard_ just doesn’t count).

 

This go around, the Alphas waste no time: Stiles is immediately strapped to a tree with rough leather bindings and stripped down to his boxers which is actually way crueler than it sounds, because there’s a storm front rolling in, and it’s fucking _cold_ out in the woods.

 

“This is getting old quick,” Stiles barks when Bottle Blonde locks his wrists together with a pair of rusty handcuffs. Somebody else covers his eyes with a makeshift blindfold, and Stiles gasps as a cold breeze whips though the thin fabric of his remaining covering. “Derek Hale and I are still not best buddies forever, so why don’t you do yourself a favor and cut me loose?”

 

“Oh Stiles,” a male voice purrs from behind him. It sounds like Sexyface, but Stiles isn’t going to put money on it. “We have ways of making you talk. And even if you don’t, we have ways of ensuring you’ll never talk again.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles huffs. People really need to work on their threats, because that one? Lame. “Can we get around to the torture part already?”

 

There’s a sharp pain in his left side, and Stiles knows that he’s been stabbed when he feels sharp serrated edges cutting his flesh wide open. Moments later, there’s another sharp pain, this time on his right side, and Stiles can feel one of the Alphas (he thinks it’s Sexyface again, because there’s a stubble-covered chin rocking against his neck too) stick his claws into the open wound and dig around in the muscle until Stiles screams. It hurts, god, it _hurts_ , and Stiles doesn’t even have the leverage to bend in half to stop the pain from running across his lower belly.

 

“Is it really worth it?” Bottle Blonde asks coyly. Another set of claws dig into his other side, and Stiles can’t even gather the breath of cry anymore.

 

“That all you got?” he whimpers when he feels one of the claws withdraw a little and god, he’s going to die here and he never even got a proper look at a naked person who wasn’t his family member (and was, you know, not being paid for their special services by Vivid Entertainment).

 

Suddenly, there’s a rustling through the trees, and Stiles hears the blare of a horn honking in the distance. He’s too whacked out to do anything about it, but the Alphas seem spooked, and the claws retract completely from his body. Stiles feels the blood ooze from his body, warming his bare legs as it dribbles out. 

 

“Stiles!” That’s Derek’s voice, he’s pretty sure. Or maybe Allison’s voice. Or possibly Isaac’s. Fuck, he’s out of it.

 

“Hey! A little help over here?” Stiles wheezes, managing to slip the cuffs (hey, being a sheriff’s kid did come with some perks, and the ability to escape police custody was one of them) and pull off his blindfold. 

 

What he sees when the blindfold is gone is nothing short of bizarre: Derek and Scott are rushing out of the Bug, and Jackson and Erica and Boyd are pulling things out of the back of a pickup, and there’s screaming and shouting, and (oh god) _shooting_. Because Derek and his Pack of The Seriously Lacking in Self-Esteem? They’re all locked and loaded with shiny guns that Stiles has never seen before.

 

Stiles watches from the sidelines as what he will remember as a truly anticlimactic event progresses. Derek is a whiz with a Colt (go figure), and Scott holds his own for once, a sturdy shotgun in tow that he wields with surprising ease. Jackson is handy with a pistol, and even Isaac manages to make due with what looks suspiciously like a police-issue handgun. They manage to blast half of the Alphas out cold, and the other half sprint across the dense underbrush of the outlying forest, Boyd and Erica in pursuit with crossbows.   

 

“Fall back!” an Alpha with wavy brown hair calls out. Stiles recognizes him as the one who suggested taking off his pants when they kidnapped him, which makes his official Alpha nickname Pervert.

 

Which, right. “Pants,” Stiles spits out. He’s not even going to try and move against the restraints. “Now. Please.”

 

Scott finally turns away from shooting at the retreating Alphas, and double-takes when he sees Stiles pinned to the tree. “Dude!” Scott says as he starts working at the bindings with his wolf teeth. “What the hell?”

 

“Don’t what the hell me, McCall! When were you off taking Annie Oakley lessons?”

 

“Allison and her dad,” Scott answers, not quite meeting Stiles’ eyes. He pulls the last of the restraints off with a little snap, and Stiles wobbles forward, his center of gravity totally amiss. “Enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that. They’re been giving the pack lessons on the weekends.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles breathes. That’s…well, whatever. “My pants?”

 

Scott laughs just a little bit, and finally throws him the pants. Of course, because Stiles is Stiles and the Universe hates him, they’re shredded to the point where full frontal nudity might just be more tasteful. As it is, Stiles pulls them on anyway, and wonders how he’s going to explain this whole bloody fiasco (and his seriously fucked up torso) to his father.

 

And that’s when his legs give out, and he hits the ground.

 

\---

 

Stiles is totally going to pass out.

 

Derek is violating pretty much every traffic law on the books as he speeds toward what Stiles imagines is the nearest available emergency room. Stiles appreciates the gesture, considering that he’s taken a look at Derek’s DMV record on his father’s police laptop and one more moving violation is going to lead to a pretty hefty fine made payable to Beacon County.

 

“Stiles, you can’t pass out.”

 

“Oh, I really think I can,” he murmurs, and almost feels bad for bleeding all over the nice, new upholstery.

 

“Keep talking to me, Stiles,” Derek demands from the front seat. “Keep talking to me or…”

 

Stiles doesn’t really hear the rest of what Derek says. Listening hurts, like everything else. Instead, Stiles sniffs weakly, taking in the scents lingering around the car. Even though there’s a layer of his blood coating the floor and Derek looks like he’s been living in the wild for the last few months (which, right, Stiles thinks he probably has), there’s the faint scent of lemon meringue pie and peaches.  It even smells a little bit like his kitchen did when he mom would bake for hours and hours, letting the scents percolate around the house.

 

“Stiles, can you hear me?”

                                                     

“Your car smells nice,” Stiles breathes, and passes out.

 

\---

 

Stiles wakes up in a pastel pink bedroom.

 

Stiles shifts on the bed beneath him, his fingers grasping against the silky sheets. Yup. Definitely pink. And the room is definitely newly painted, if the lingering lacquer scent in the air is anything to go by.  Guess that trip to Home Depot served a purpose for Derek other than freaking Stiles the fuck out.

 

“Aww, shit.”

 

Stiles turns around to see Erica poking her head around the door. She’s wearing pajamas and her hair is big and messy. Stiles thinks it’s the first time he’s seen her without makeup in at least six months. He never noticed how she smells like lilies, even from this distance. Must be one hell of a body spray she’s wearing.

 

 “Who had twelve hours?”

 

Isaac’s head appears next to hers, and he looks as though he also just rolled out of bed. He’s carrying a plate of food that Stiles’ stomach is very interested in getting to know on an up-close and personal basis in the near future. Stiles tries not to drool when Isaac sits next to him on the bed and places the plate on the side table.

 

“You took bets?” Stiles asks. “Seriously, I was dying, and you took _bets_?”

 

“Don’t be offended,” Derek’s voice offers from outside the room. When he enters, he’s shirtless, and Stiles swears that he can see the cut lines of his abs even clearer than normal. “They bet on everything. It’s like crack to them. You should have seen the pool on whether not Scott would get held back last year.”

 

Two things occur to Stiles at this point. One, he is definitely not in a hospital. Two, he does not appear to be dead. Which, really, neither one of these things has any right to be true after what those Alphas did to him last night.

 

His simultaneous revelations must read flicker across his face, because Derek looks a little guilty and a lot tense. Stiles then notices a throbbing itch on the inside of his wrist, and he turns his arm, palm up, and sees it, stark against his pale skin. “What the…”

 

There’s a set of teeth marks around his wrist. They’re faint, and getting fainter by the minute, but the fact of the matter is that they’re there at all.  

 

“You’re one of us now,” Isaac whispers, touching the bite with his fingertips.

 

“Sorry,” Derek adds. Stiles meets his eyes, and Derek is totally lying about the sorry part. “It was that or…”  

 

“No, no. I mean…” Stiles forces a laugh. “It’s okay. I think.” He leans back against the bed frame, and suddenly wishes he could feel the sharp sting of Sexyface’s claws in his muscle. As it is, he can’t even feel the scars on his sides that should be there. “It’s okay.”

 

Erica smiles at him, a little wistful. “Maybe you need a couple more hours of sleep.”

 

“That would be good,” Stiles says. “Very, very good.”

 

Derek nods at him, and Isaac and Erica exit the room with a stealth that Stiles knows he’s going to aspire to in his werewolfy future.

 

“Wait!” he calls before Derek closes the door. He clutches the pink fabric of the comforter to his stomach, flushing. “Where are my pants?”

 

\---

 

The house is beautiful. The foundation has obviously been renovated in the last few years, with bright white primer coating the bulk of the walls. Most of the knick-knacks around the place are new, gleaming in the early morning sun, but Stiles can see a couple pictures placed around the house that are older, where Derek is grinning next to his dark-featured family.

 

“You’re taking this surprisingly well,” Derek says when Stiles finally comes out of the front door, fully dressed in clothes he assumes belongs to Isaac. He settles next to Derek on the front stoop. “Scott thought you were going to cry.”

 

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, well. Better alive and wolfed out, I guess.” He kicks some loose dirt on the ground. He’s not thrilled with the way his eyes notice every speck of dust that flies through the air.  

 

“You guess?”

 

Stiles shrugs. “Haven’t gotten used to the idea yet. I’m sure I’ll lose it when I’m back at home.”

 

“You’re pack now, Stiles. This is your home now, too.”

 

Stiles chuckles. “In that case, I’ll go ahead and have that nervous breakdown right now. Do you have a box of tissues and a couple pints of Ben and Jerry’s?”

 

Derek shakes his head, and touches his hand to the bite. Stiles shudders, and wonders if Derek does the same thing to the other members of the pack he bit. He sort of hopes that he doesn’t.  

 

He’s not really paying attention when Derek leaves him alone with his thoughts. There are too many sights and smells flooding his body right now to care.

 

And then he sees it. In the driveway is the Camaro. It’s just sitting there, waiting to be driven. And there’s not a scratch on it.

 

“You lied!” Stiles shouts to nobody in particular, and he can hear Derek laughing from inside the house.

 

\---

 

Erica, Boyd, and Isaac cook him breakfast.

 

“Is this some weird pack invitation thing?” Stiles says, wary even as he’s piling his plate full of waffles and scrambled eggs. “Because it didn’t really work with Scott, and I have less than no incentive to join Team Hale and it’s Crazy Cast of Misfits. I can do the Omega thing much more convincingly than Scott, trust me.”

 

“Nah,” Erica calls from across the room. She’s stirring something in a frying pan, and Stiles’ mouth just waters at the scent of bacon grease that wafts through the air. “You’re pack whether you like it or not now.”

 

“And you better pull your weight,” Isaac adds, sipping his cranberry-orange juice concoction like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “You’re all bark and no bite right now.”

Erica laughs behind him, and Stiles actually likes the way the sound resonates, loud and clear through his head.

 

\---

 

It turns out that Stiles’ dad has known about the whole werewolf thing for months.

 

“So,” his dad starts. “You’re one of them now. That’s…unique?”

 

Stiles laughs, mainly because his father’s giving his the same confused look he gave Stiles that time he brought a raccoon home as a pet. “Yes. Unique. That’s exactly the euphemism I was hoping you’d go for.”

 

“I’m not saying I’m happy about it. And the lying had to stop now Stiles.”

 

“Right. Totally. The buck stops here. But, on a totally unrelated topic, how did you know I was here?” Stiles scratches his wrist absently. “Did Derek call you?”

 

“GPS tracker,” the Sheriff admits. “Tagged one to your Jeep and put one in your watch. If either one doesn’t move for a suspiciously long time, I get a text to my phone.”

 

Stiles nods. “Well, that is both sweet and a totally creepy invasion of my privacy.”

 

The Sheriff gets a kick out of that. Stiles never noticed how deep his father’s laugh was until that moment.

 

“You’re not going to try and kill me during the full moon, are you?” his dad asks seriously as he looks around the room. “Because I have enough crazies to deal with on those nights.”

 

“I’ll do my best,” Stiles promises, and cries out when his father cuffs him on the back of his neck.

 

\---

 

Melissa McCall comes over to the house for dinner, and brings a homemade casserole. His father puts on a strained smile when Derek sits at the head of the pristine oak table in the dining room and thanks everybody for being there. Scott looks like he’s going to stroke out when Chris Argent shows up with a carving knife and a slab of ham, and Allison keeps giving Erica this creeped out look that Stiles is for sure going to quiz her on later. Even Lydia and Jackson show, with five bottles of expensive apple cider and crystal wine glasses that Derek thanks him for.

 

“It could be worse,” Isaac whispers to him. If possible, he’s even cuter with “Derek could have invited Peter.”

 

It’s easily the most bizarre dinner he’s ever had in his life, and it feels so right that Stiles seriously wants to burst.

 

\---

 

He and Derek are in the kitchen, cleaning the dinner plates by hand, because apparently the one item Derek didn’t invest in was a quality dish washer. Derek is unnervingly quiet, and Stiles doesn’t exactly know what the proper etiquette is for hanging out with the guy who both saved your ass and condemned you to a life filled with the supernatural. He somehow thinks flowers won’t fully convey the feelings he has right now.

 

“I like it,” Stiles blurts out as he starts drying the casserole dish. “The house, I mean. It feels like a home.”

 

Derek smiles, like he did that day that Stiles saw him driving the Bug in town. “I’m happy you approve.”

 

“But you know the Alphas are going to find it eventually,” Stiles adds. “That’s a lot of investment for something that you’re eventually going to have to leave.” 

 

“The Alphas are gone,” Derek says quietly. “Taking on a rogue pack it one thing. Taking on one of the most powerful Hunting families in the United States is another. I don’t think they knew what they signed up for.”

 

Derek puts down the sponge and dish wash soap. “You’re going to be good at this, Stiles,” he promises. “You already are.”

 

Stiles does not blush. Really. “Yeah, well.”

 

Derek kisses him then, and it’s sweet and hot and Stiles tries very hard to ignore the fact he can hear Scott four rooms over, laughing at a joke Allison makes about full moons that goes over surprisingly well in a crowd of werewolves.

 

\---

 

“Should have gotten the Mini Cooper,” Stiles moans a couple hours later, after his father and Mrs. McCall have left and the rest of the pack is engrossed in a midnight marathon of _American Horror Story_ (irony of ironies). “Seriously, there’s more breathing room in the backseat of those things. You wouldn’t think there would be, but there totally is.”

 

“Didn’t like the Mini Cooper,” Derek murmurs into his skin. He’s down to a pair of jeans and one sock and wow, Stiles can totally get on board with the heightened senses thing because it feels like he’s going to explode in the best possible sense when Derek runs his tongue along the curve of his jaw. “Felt like a girl when I was test driving it.”

 

Stiles snorts. “Yeah. Because the Bug is all man.”

 

Derek doesn’t answer, just _squeezes,_ which is absolutely not a fair response.

 

“Oh god.” Stiles mutters as he feels the rough denim of his jeans starts being pulled down his legs. “I’m gonna lose it in the back of a VW Bug.”

 

Stiles hears the quiet hooting of owls that are too far away as a couple fingers press against him. He tries very hard not to think about the fresh blood stains that he’s probably rolling all over right now because nothing is a mood killer like former death-defying experiences.

 

“Yeah,” Derek breathes, his mouth hovering above Stiles’ neck, fangs glistening just a little bit in the moonlight. “Yeah, you are.” 


End file.
